Day 126

Writing exercise

…

Nobody believed this story when I told them, because I embellish, I omit, and I invent; in short, I lie.

I never thought the world I had woven for myself to live in would have consequences I could never have imagined.

I mean, it’s not as if I invented a spaceship and told people I was an alien posing as a human sent to suss out earth’s population before my planet sent a peace delegation.

But that didn’t mean it was on my list of stories.

This was a story about self-preservation. I already had the unenviable reputation of telling lies, and it had reached the point where everyone rolled their eyes and simply ignored me.

Except a lie turned into what could be truth, and led to the police swarming around my parents’ house and everyone being roused from their beds at gunpoint.  For me, it was particularly brutal, being dragged out of bed, thrown to the floor, and having three burly policemen hold me down until I was cuffed.

Then, after a few extra blows to reinforce the notion of I tried to escape there would be worse to come, I was unceremoniously dragged from the house in full more of the other family members and worse, the neighbours.

They were not horrified.  I heard one say, “That little shit finally got what he deserved.’  Others had similar sentiments.  My father was stony-faced, my mother was in tears, and my sister, furious

The arrest had broken two of my ribs and made it very difficult to breathe.  My complaints fell on deaf ears until I spewed up a mass of blood in the back of the police car.

Only then did they realise there had been excessive force used, not that it mattered, I was a dangerous criminal, and had to be subdued because I ‘had put up resistance to the extent the arresting officer feared for his life’.

I couldn’t make that up even if I wanted to.  And worse, as the paramedics took me to the hospital, the police officer accompanying me had said no one would believe me if I told them the truth.

The sad fact about that statement is that he was right.

Stabilised and bandaged, but not given any pain killers, I was taken from the emergency room to the police station, tossed in an interview room, and made to sit in an uncomfortable chair for two hours.

The pain was unbearable, and I realised after the first hour in that small, overly hot room, that I was only at the start of the roller-coaster ride.

The bigger question I asked myself was why, after all this time, was I there?

It was not as if I wasn’t well known for living in a fantasy world.  My foster parents, as much as they were dismayed at the trouble I’d brought to their doorstep, knew just how troubled a child I was.

Seventeen years ago, I was found in a house with five dead people: my mother, my father, two brothers, and a sister.  I was a baby, not six months old, who had been spared.

Why?  Because, it was speculated in nearly every newspaper in the country, I was too young to identify the killer or killers.  There had been no motive established, and the half dozen suspects the police had on their list had all been cleared, and, years later, with no clues or evidence available, it had become a cold case.

The thing is, it had traumatised me and for as long as I could remember, I had the recollection of the event, the gunshots that killed my family, and an image of a man or woman looking down at me. 

It was not anyone I could recognise, and had wisely kept those details to myself because no one would have believed me.

But as long as I could remember, and after being placed in foster care, I had constructed a fantasy world for myself, the people I assumed to be my family.  Foster care did that to you, bouncing from one bad home to another, until you finally land in a good one, or you end up on the wrong side of the law.

I’d finally landed in a good one when I was fifteen, but by that time, learning to dodge and weave the brutal, neglectful and horrible people, I’d become so entrenched in a world of lies that even I didn’t know truth from fiction.

But as to why I was in that interview room?

Well, that all started seventeen days ago, the seventeenth anniversary of the murders.  I was home alone, the real members of my new family out celebrating one of my step sisters’ birthdays.

I had not been invited, having been grounded after another incident at school.  I was watching the TV news and saw an item about a man who was from my hometown, a man with a face that registered in the back of my mind.

My first thought was that I’d seen him before, which was not unlikely. He had been the Assistant DA who was in charge of the investigation into my family’s murder, or so I’d been told.

And then I thought nothing more of it until I went to sleep that night and, for some odd reason, relived the events if that night seventeen years ago.

Only I could not have.  I was only a few months old. There was no way I could remember any of it.  But that was not the worst of it.  Lying in bed, I woke suddenly, and before I could clear my thoughts, a face was staring down at me, clear as day.

The man who had been on TV.  It was not possible. 

The reason, I believe, as to why I was there, I told the sheriff about the FBI agent, the fact I’d remembered something that involved Herbert W Winfield.

Seventeen hours later, I had the shit beaten out of me and awaited a fate worse than death.

Many years ago, when I had gotten into trouble as an on-the-cusp teen, I was visited by an FBI agent.  She was investigating a case that, she said, was of national importance.

I thought that the fact that she was visiting me, I had finally reached that proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.  She told me that it was not so much the crimes I’d committed as the fact that I was a person of interest in another crime, the murder of my family.

And the fact that she was currently looking at prospective candidates for President.  We had a president.  What did my father have to do with presenting investigations? She didn’t say, just that if I remembered anything, to call her.

She left a card.  Normally, when I bounced from foster carer to foster carer, I usually took nothing with me.  It seemed serendipitous that I still had it.

I was still thinking about that card when the door opened and the sheriff came in.  Whatever I had done must have been very serious.

He closed the door and leaned against it.

I was breathing shallowly to ease the pain and sweating.  To say I was afraid was an understatement. 

“Lies, especially when they involve very important people, can have far-reaching consequences, Tim.  You and I both know that Mr Winfield had nothing to do with what happened to your family, and to involve him like this, well, I just can’t imagine why you would do so, other than it’s just another of your fantasies.  This time, however, there will be consequences.  Unless, of course, you go out there when we’re finished here and admit your lies and apologise for any harm you may have caused.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

“Unfortunately, not.  You have violated your last parole order, and that means the jail sentence is back on the table.  You will not be seeing daylight for at least five years, Tim.  As I said earlier, there will be consequences this time.  Enough is enough.”

Perhaps, I told myself, I might have been wiser not to share my thoughts, but I had assumed the sheriff would uphold the law.

“I’ll give you time to think about it.”

I had to ask.  “If I don’t agree?”

“You don’t want to go down that path, Tim.  Fifteen minutes.”

He pounded on the door, and a moment later, it opened.  I heard, “Sorry, Sheriff, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He was almost pushed to one side as the woman came into the cell.  She stopped and gasped when she saw me.

“What the hell happened to him?” She swivelled around to glare at the Sheriff.”

“He resisted arrest.”

“That’s one excuse, Sheriff, but not one that would hold up to investigation.  Come, Tim, I’m taking you out of here.”

“This is my problem, Agent…”

“Thomas, Agent Thomas. This is my problem now. You’d best find yourself a lawyer in case we come back.” Back to me, “Tim.”

I stood, slowly, and winced. It was not lost on her.

“Resisting arrest?”

Outside, in the fresh air, I couldn’t sigh in relief; it hurt too much. There was another FBI type standing next to a black Suburban car, like the ones I’d seen on TV.

“Get in,” she said, her assistant holding the door open for me.

I climbed in, and he shut the door. There was no escaping.

She got in and started driving.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Except we weren’t. We drove past the exit and straight on up the road, heading for the next county. I figured it wasn’t the time to start asking stupid questions. My first thought, now, was they were not who they said they were, but agents working for Winfield, here to do what he should have done seventeen years ago.

At a railway station at the first town over the county line, she stopped the car. She nodded to the man, and he got out and walked across the road to the diner.

She turned around and looked at me. “We’re supposed to put a bullet in the back of your head and throw you down a disused mine. There are a lot of them around here, and no one would bother looking for you, not even that new family of yours. There’s a bag next to you on the seat. Money and a new identity. You take it, get on that train and then disappear. You show your head above water again, I will find you, and do what I should be doing. I get it. You got a bad break. Now, grow a brain and change your life. Completely. Think you can do that?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m one of the good ones, Tim. Now, you have five minutes before the train comes. The ticket and money are in the bag; keep your head down, and no one needs to know. Now, go.”

They had driven off before I reached the platform, just in time to see the train coming down the line. The ticket was to the other side of the country. My name was Jim Chalk. Orphan. There were the names of five restaurants looking for a general hand. I guess any of the five would take me on. There was an address for a boarding house and a lady’s name.

By the time I arrived, Tim had gone, and Jim had taken over. Finally, I could stop running.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 126

Writing exercise

…

Nobody believed this story when I told them, because I embellish, I omit, and I invent; in short, I lie.

I never thought the world I had woven for myself to live in would have consequences I could never have imagined.

I mean, it’s not as if I invented a spaceship and told people I was an alien posing as a human sent to suss out earth’s population before my planet sent a peace delegation.

But that didn’t mean it was on my list of stories.

This was a story about self-preservation. I already had the unenviable reputation of telling lies, and it had reached the point where everyone rolled their eyes and simply ignored me.

Except a lie turned into what could be truth, and led to the police swarming around my parents’ house and everyone being roused from their beds at gunpoint.  For me, it was particularly brutal, being dragged out of bed, thrown to the floor, and having three burly policemen hold me down until I was cuffed.

Then, after a few extra blows to reinforce the notion of I tried to escape there would be worse to come, I was unceremoniously dragged from the house in full more of the other family members and worse, the neighbours.

They were not horrified.  I heard one say, “That little shit finally got what he deserved.’  Others had similar sentiments.  My father was stony-faced, my mother was in tears, and my sister, furious

The arrest had broken two of my ribs and made it very difficult to breathe.  My complaints fell on deaf ears until I spewed up a mass of blood in the back of the police car.

Only then did they realise there had been excessive force used, not that it mattered, I was a dangerous criminal, and had to be subdued because I ‘had put up resistance to the extent the arresting officer feared for his life’.

I couldn’t make that up even if I wanted to.  And worse, as the paramedics took me to the hospital, the police officer accompanying me had said no one would believe me if I told them the truth.

The sad fact about that statement is that he was right.

Stabilised and bandaged, but not given any pain killers, I was taken from the emergency room to the police station, tossed in an interview room, and made to sit in an uncomfortable chair for two hours.

The pain was unbearable, and I realised after the first hour in that small, overly hot room, that I was only at the start of the roller-coaster ride.

The bigger question I asked myself was why, after all this time, was I there?

It was not as if I wasn’t well known for living in a fantasy world.  My foster parents, as much as they were dismayed at the trouble I’d brought to their doorstep, knew just how troubled a child I was.

Seventeen years ago, I was found in a house with five dead people: my mother, my father, two brothers, and a sister.  I was a baby, not six months old, who had been spared.

Why?  Because, it was speculated in nearly every newspaper in the country, I was too young to identify the killer or killers.  There had been no motive established, and the half dozen suspects the police had on their list had all been cleared, and, years later, with no clues or evidence available, it had become a cold case.

The thing is, it had traumatised me and for as long as I could remember, I had the recollection of the event, the gunshots that killed my family, and an image of a man or woman looking down at me. 

It was not anyone I could recognise, and had wisely kept those details to myself because no one would have believed me.

But as long as I could remember, and after being placed in foster care, I had constructed a fantasy world for myself, the people I assumed to be my family.  Foster care did that to you, bouncing from one bad home to another, until you finally land in a good one, or you end up on the wrong side of the law.

I’d finally landed in a good one when I was fifteen, but by that time, learning to dodge and weave the brutal, neglectful and horrible people, I’d become so entrenched in a world of lies that even I didn’t know truth from fiction.

But as to why I was in that interview room?

Well, that all started seventeen days ago, the seventeenth anniversary of the murders.  I was home alone, the real members of my new family out celebrating one of my step sisters’ birthdays.

I had not been invited, having been grounded after another incident at school.  I was watching the TV news and saw an item about a man who was from my hometown, a man with a face that registered in the back of my mind.

My first thought was that I’d seen him before, which was not unlikely. He had been the Assistant DA who was in charge of the investigation into my family’s murder, or so I’d been told.

And then I thought nothing more of it until I went to sleep that night and, for some odd reason, relived the events if that night seventeen years ago.

Only I could not have.  I was only a few months old. There was no way I could remember any of it.  But that was not the worst of it.  Lying in bed, I woke suddenly, and before I could clear my thoughts, a face was staring down at me, clear as day.

The man who had been on TV.  It was not possible. 

The reason, I believe, as to why I was there, I told the sheriff about the FBI agent, the fact I’d remembered something that involved Herbert W Winfield.

Seventeen hours later, I had the shit beaten out of me and awaited a fate worse than death.

Many years ago, when I had gotten into trouble as an on-the-cusp teen, I was visited by an FBI agent.  She was investigating a case that, she said, was of national importance.

I thought that the fact that she was visiting me, I had finally reached that proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.  She told me that it was not so much the crimes I’d committed as the fact that I was a person of interest in another crime, the murder of my family.

And the fact that she was currently looking at prospective candidates for President.  We had a president.  What did my father have to do with presenting investigations? She didn’t say, just that if I remembered anything, to call her.

She left a card.  Normally, when I bounced from foster carer to foster carer, I usually took nothing with me.  It seemed serendipitous that I still had it.

I was still thinking about that card when the door opened and the sheriff came in.  Whatever I had done must have been very serious.

He closed the door and leaned against it.

I was breathing shallowly to ease the pain and sweating.  To say I was afraid was an understatement. 

“Lies, especially when they involve very important people, can have far-reaching consequences, Tim.  You and I both know that Mr Winfield had nothing to do with what happened to your family, and to involve him like this, well, I just can’t imagine why you would do so, other than it’s just another of your fantasies.  This time, however, there will be consequences.  Unless, of course, you go out there when we’re finished here and admit your lies and apologise for any harm you may have caused.”

“Then I’m free to go?”

“Unfortunately, not.  You have violated your last parole order, and that means the jail sentence is back on the table.  You will not be seeing daylight for at least five years, Tim.  As I said earlier, there will be consequences this time.  Enough is enough.”

Perhaps, I told myself, I might have been wiser not to share my thoughts, but I had assumed the sheriff would uphold the law.

“I’ll give you time to think about it.”

I had to ask.  “If I don’t agree?”

“You don’t want to go down that path, Tim.  Fifteen minutes.”

He pounded on the door, and a moment later, it opened.  I heard, “Sorry, Sheriff, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He was almost pushed to one side as the woman came into the cell.  She stopped and gasped when she saw me.

“What the hell happened to him?” She swivelled around to glare at the Sheriff.”

“He resisted arrest.”

“That’s one excuse, Sheriff, but not one that would hold up to investigation.  Come, Tim, I’m taking you out of here.”

“This is my problem, Agent…”

“Thomas, Agent Thomas. This is my problem now. You’d best find yourself a lawyer in case we come back.” Back to me, “Tim.”

I stood, slowly, and winced. It was not lost on her.

“Resisting arrest?”

Outside, in the fresh air, I couldn’t sigh in relief; it hurt too much. There was another FBI type standing next to a black Suburban car, like the ones I’d seen on TV.

“Get in,” she said, her assistant holding the door open for me.

I climbed in, and he shut the door. There was no escaping.

She got in and started driving.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Except we weren’t. We drove past the exit and straight on up the road, heading for the next county. I figured it wasn’t the time to start asking stupid questions. My first thought, now, was they were not who they said they were, but agents working for Winfield, here to do what he should have done seventeen years ago.

At a railway station at the first town over the county line, she stopped the car. She nodded to the man, and he got out and walked across the road to the diner.

She turned around and looked at me. “We’re supposed to put a bullet in the back of your head and throw you down a disused mine. There are a lot of them around here, and no one would bother looking for you, not even that new family of yours. There’s a bag next to you on the seat. Money and a new identity. You take it, get on that train and then disappear. You show your head above water again, I will find you, and do what I should be doing. I get it. You got a bad break. Now, grow a brain and change your life. Completely. Think you can do that?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m one of the good ones, Tim. Now, you have five minutes before the train comes. The ticket and money are in the bag; keep your head down, and no one needs to know. Now, go.”

They had driven off before I reached the platform, just in time to see the train coming down the line. The ticket was to the other side of the country. My name was Jim Chalk. Orphan. There were the names of five restaurants looking for a general hand. I guess any of the five would take me on. There was an address for a boarding house and a lady’s name.

By the time I arrived, Tim had gone, and Jim had taken over. Finally, I could stop running.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 125

Writing exercise – Sometimes spontaneity is the most sparkling kind of beauty.

Let’s try!

…

I was sitting in the half light, almost mesmerised by the stroboscopic effect of the light reflecting off the slowly rotating fan.

On a relatively warm, balmy night after a hot day, I’d taken a moment to find an uninhabitable room for some reflection.

The chair was very comfortable, with a wide armrest that on one side rested a tumbler with ice and rum, with a splash of lime.  It wasn’t a drink I’d usually partake in, but tonight, it was almost sublime.

In front of me, the glass patio doors led out onto a paved area, then the southern lawn, and beyond that the sea, with the full moon both illuminating the gardens and shimmering on a calm ocean.

Evert now and then, the gentle breeze would ruffle the leaves of nearby bushes, adding to the soothing effect of near silence and half light.

It would be an understatement to say I was exhausted.  A few difficult cases that required navigating levels of society I was not accustomed to dealing with had left me at odds with both my superiors and the people they had to deal with.

Now, with the latest case solved, though I was not sure everyone was happy with the result, the parents of the young girl who had been assaulted and left for dead had invited me to a celebration of her return to society.

I wasn’t so sure it was what she wanted, but as I understood it, very few people denied her father’s wishes.

I heard a slight rustle to my left, towards the entrance to the room, and I turned my head slightly.

A tall, lissom young girl in a stunning evening gown that, by my estimation, would cost about a year’s salary was standing just inside the doorway.

She had a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  The last time I’d seen a picture like that was on the cover of a Great Gatsby book.

“You’re a slippery fellow, aren’t you?”

It was a voice you would never expect from what you saw, one that managed to send shivers down my spine.

“Uncomfortable.”

She had greeted me at the door when I had arrived a few hours earlier, along with her father, mother, and older brother.

“You look rather elegant in a tuxedo.”

She took a few steps further into the room and stood framed by the doorway, with the moon at her back. 

She had physically recovered, but by my estimation, she would take a lot longer to mentally recover.  She had suffered badly at the hands of her attackers.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Melissa.  I’m only here because your father insisted.  I don’t belong in this world.”

My mind went back to the day she came to visit and handed me the gold-embossed invitation.  I knew then that there was something else in play and did my best to convince her that my role in her life was over.

Being the one who found her and, for all intents and purposes, saved her, she had taken that as a sign.  Her father had recognised it, but for the sake of his ‘little girl’ asked me if I would indulge her until she recovered.

I had, and now it was time to move on.  The only one who didn’t understand was Melissa.

“It’s not fair.  I don’t think I will ever feel safe again.  Daddy just doesn’t understand.”

“I assure you, he does.  He cares a great deal about your welfare.”

“You understand.”

“I understand that you are still feeling vulnerable, and it’s to be expected.  Your father had employed security for you, and I helped him find the right person.  Anna is very good at what she does.”

“But. .”

“There are no buts, Melissa.”  I dragged myself out of the chair and went over to her. “I’ll take you back now.  Many people care about you, and they all want you to get on with your life.  I want you to get on with your life.”

Music drifted in from the ballroom, just down the passage and outside a front door. Her father had brought in a full orchestra. I would be lucky to have a gramophone.

She put down the glass and stubbed out the cigarette.  I watched the last tendrils of smoke rise and then disappear.

“We should dance,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Back in the ballroom.”

“On the patio.  I get self-conscious in front of all those people.  Please?”

One dance, I told myself.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 125

Writing exercise – Sometimes spontaneity is the most sparkling kind of beauty.

Let’s try!

…

I was sitting in the half light, almost mesmerised by the stroboscopic effect of the light reflecting off the slowly rotating fan.

On a relatively warm, balmy night after a hot day, I’d taken a moment to find an uninhabitable room for some reflection.

The chair was very comfortable, with a wide armrest that on one side rested a tumbler with ice and rum, with a splash of lime.  It wasn’t a drink I’d usually partake in, but tonight, it was almost sublime.

In front of me, the glass patio doors led out onto a paved area, then the southern lawn, and beyond that the sea, with the full moon both illuminating the gardens and shimmering on a calm ocean.

Evert now and then, the gentle breeze would ruffle the leaves of nearby bushes, adding to the soothing effect of near silence and half light.

It would be an understatement to say I was exhausted.  A few difficult cases that required navigating levels of society I was not accustomed to dealing with had left me at odds with both my superiors and the people they had to deal with.

Now, with the latest case solved, though I was not sure everyone was happy with the result, the parents of the young girl who had been assaulted and left for dead had invited me to a celebration of her return to society.

I wasn’t so sure it was what she wanted, but as I understood it, very few people denied her father’s wishes.

I heard a slight rustle to my left, towards the entrance to the room, and I turned my head slightly.

A tall, lissom young girl in a stunning evening gown that, by my estimation, would cost about a year’s salary was standing just inside the doorway.

She had a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.  The last time I’d seen a picture like that was on the cover of a Great Gatsby book.

“You’re a slippery fellow, aren’t you?”

It was a voice you would never expect from what you saw, one that managed to send shivers down my spine.

“Uncomfortable.”

She had greeted me at the door when I had arrived a few hours earlier, along with her father, mother, and older brother.

“You look rather elegant in a tuxedo.”

She took a few steps further into the room and stood framed by the doorway, with the moon at her back. 

She had physically recovered, but by my estimation, she would take a lot longer to mentally recover.  She had suffered badly at the hands of her attackers.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Melissa.  I’m only here because your father insisted.  I don’t belong in this world.”

My mind went back to the day she came to visit and handed me the gold-embossed invitation.  I knew then that there was something else in play and did my best to convince her that my role in her life was over.

Being the one who found her and, for all intents and purposes, saved her, she had taken that as a sign.  Her father had recognised it, but for the sake of his ‘little girl’ asked me if I would indulge her until she recovered.

I had, and now it was time to move on.  The only one who didn’t understand was Melissa.

“It’s not fair.  I don’t think I will ever feel safe again.  Daddy just doesn’t understand.”

“I assure you, he does.  He cares a great deal about your welfare.”

“You understand.”

“I understand that you are still feeling vulnerable, and it’s to be expected.  Your father had employed security for you, and I helped him find the right person.  Anna is very good at what she does.”

“But. .”

“There are no buts, Melissa.”  I dragged myself out of the chair and went over to her. “I’ll take you back now.  Many people care about you, and they all want you to get on with your life.  I want you to get on with your life.”

Music drifted in from the ballroom, just down the passage and outside a front door. Her father had brought in a full orchestra. I would be lucky to have a gramophone.

She put down the glass and stubbed out the cigarette.  I watched the last tendrils of smoke rise and then disappear.

“We should dance,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Back in the ballroom.”

“On the patio.  I get self-conscious in front of all those people.  Please?”

One dance, I told myself.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 123 and 124

A review of the progress of my story

…

It’s a third of the way through the year, and theoretically a third of the way through the book.

There have been 16 updates so far, which gives the barest of outlines of what the story is about.

This story started when I was away for business, and I woke up disoriented, having suffered a delay in a connection in an airport that really wasn’t a nice place to be. Firstly, I had a good view of the military running security, not the police or the airport security. They had cars with mounted machine guns. They had people walking around the airport with machine guns on full display.

That’s a very frightening scenario when you are not used to it back home.

Then. on arrival in a place where so many people had advised me that no where was really safe, I got there late, had to get a car from the airport to the hotel, and was basically scared half out of my wits that I was going to be kidnapped, killed, or worse.

Then, waking up, the hotel room was hot, there was a fan rotating slowly circulating the turgid air making the atmosphere in the room worse, and that abnormal silence, with the hum of the air conditioning, or other appliances, made me thing, for just one moment, that there had been a coup de etat, the power and communications were out, and I assumed the airports would be closed.

All that was missing was gunfire in the streets.

It doesn’t pay to have an overactive imagination.

Anyway, a piece of paper was shoved under the door, explaining the temporary lack of power, which came back on a few minutes later. But a story was born in those few moments.

I don’t plan, just write, and while I was away, with nothing better to do with my spare time, I threw words on paper, taking advantage of my surroundings, and the type of country it was, the sort that had in the past been subjected to a coup. How hard could it be to add a few agents from the premier spy agencies and have them all vying for a seat at the table?

The only point left was to decide whether to back the rebels or keep paying the military junta the necessary bribes to maintain the premise that it was all in the aid of democracy.

I think my sense of irony saw the idea of holding a human rights conference in a country that abuses human rights as a nod to the stories written by Graham Greene.

So, before I left that city, and country, I had all the basic elements, the environment, the corrupt government with a figurehead leader, the military junta, the fierce and highly dangerous leader of the secret police, the secret police, the notion of rebels, a rebel leader that was missing, feared captured and languishing in a cell somewhere, a bunch of rebels that for want of another description, really had no idea what they were doing.

In other words, the right person, at the right time, in the right place, with the right people, could make this work. Maybe.

Let’s add another couple of elements. There is a proper police force, with real police men from France, the colonial power that looked after the country before it gained independence, a non-corrupt police chief, and, because of the conference, a press corps.

Wondering why I’m mentioning the press corps? Fear no longer. I’ve decided to get the spy agencies to use the cover of journalists for their agents. Well, that was the premise I came up with in the beginning.

So one of the questions I should be asking right about now is, how is the plot holding up? Is it how I envisaged it in the beginning?

Well, since I don’t plan, the answer is yes. Holding up well. However, what has changed as the story has developed? The addition of an assistant, the girl with a checkered past.

Then rather than start slap bang in the middle of waking up in a sweating nightmare, the story starts with the mission that went bad and put our protagonist on the recovery list, and made this mission the first after being shot to pieces, and being the last man standing.

That was the reason for the assistant.

And then I added another element, one that might go before the story ends, the search for reasons why that mission was shot to pieces, and who it was that wanted the organisation, and the man currently in charge of it, to fail.

There’s nothing like having a sub-plot simmering along with the main problem about to blow up in everyone’s face.

Yes, there are rumours of a coup, and everyone is gearing up to square off, perhaps in the catacombs.

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time to add an underground network of caves that used to be part of the castle defences, the castle that is not the presidential palace.

So parts of the story getting written are:

An intro to the characters, and where they fit into the fabric of the story

A conference, its effect on the people and their rulers, and all those who are here for it

A pre-conference ball, and the first of the rebels’ forays

Endless distractions, and dancing with police, military, and secret police

The story behind the missing rebel leader, or rather, the once-leader of the opposition. We’re not going to be using poison-tipped umbrellas or assassins with poison-laced needles or tossing people out of 20-story windows.

That should be enough to keep me amused.

We’ll be back with another update in a hundred days.

Days 123 and 124

A review of the progress of my story

…

It’s a third of the way through the year, and theoretically a third of the way through the book.

There have been 16 updates so far, which gives the barest of outlines of what the story is about.

This story started when I was away for business, and I woke up disoriented, having suffered a delay in a connection in an airport that really wasn’t a nice place to be. Firstly, I had a good view of the military running security, not the police or the airport security. They had cars with mounted machine guns. They had people walking around the airport with machine guns on full display.

That’s a very frightening scenario when you are not used to it back home.

Then. on arrival in a place where so many people had advised me that no where was really safe, I got there late, had to get a car from the airport to the hotel, and was basically scared half out of my wits that I was going to be kidnapped, killed, or worse.

Then, waking up, the hotel room was hot, there was a fan rotating slowly circulating the turgid air making the atmosphere in the room worse, and that abnormal silence, with the hum of the air conditioning, or other appliances, made me thing, for just one moment, that there had been a coup de etat, the power and communications were out, and I assumed the airports would be closed.

All that was missing was gunfire in the streets.

It doesn’t pay to have an overactive imagination.

Anyway, a piece of paper was shoved under the door, explaining the temporary lack of power, which came back on a few minutes later. But a story was born in those few moments.

I don’t plan, just write, and while I was away, with nothing better to do with my spare time, I threw words on paper, taking advantage of my surroundings, and the type of country it was, the sort that had in the past been subjected to a coup. How hard could it be to add a few agents from the premier spy agencies and have them all vying for a seat at the table?

The only point left was to decide whether to back the rebels or keep paying the military junta the necessary bribes to maintain the premise that it was all in the aid of democracy.

I think my sense of irony saw the idea of holding a human rights conference in a country that abuses human rights as a nod to the stories written by Graham Greene.

So, before I left that city, and country, I had all the basic elements, the environment, the corrupt government with a figurehead leader, the military junta, the fierce and highly dangerous leader of the secret police, the secret police, the notion of rebels, a rebel leader that was missing, feared captured and languishing in a cell somewhere, a bunch of rebels that for want of another description, really had no idea what they were doing.

In other words, the right person, at the right time, in the right place, with the right people, could make this work. Maybe.

Let’s add another couple of elements. There is a proper police force, with real police men from France, the colonial power that looked after the country before it gained independence, a non-corrupt police chief, and, because of the conference, a press corps.

Wondering why I’m mentioning the press corps? Fear no longer. I’ve decided to get the spy agencies to use the cover of journalists for their agents. Well, that was the premise I came up with in the beginning.

So one of the questions I should be asking right about now is, how is the plot holding up? Is it how I envisaged it in the beginning?

Well, since I don’t plan, the answer is yes. Holding up well. However, what has changed as the story has developed? The addition of an assistant, the girl with a checkered past.

Then rather than start slap bang in the middle of waking up in a sweating nightmare, the story starts with the mission that went bad and put our protagonist on the recovery list, and made this mission the first after being shot to pieces, and being the last man standing.

That was the reason for the assistant.

And then I added another element, one that might go before the story ends, the search for reasons why that mission was shot to pieces, and who it was that wanted the organisation, and the man currently in charge of it, to fail.

There’s nothing like having a sub-plot simmering along with the main problem about to blow up in everyone’s face.

Yes, there are rumours of a coup, and everyone is gearing up to square off, perhaps in the catacombs.

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time to add an underground network of caves that used to be part of the castle defences, the castle that is not the presidential palace.

So parts of the story getting written are:

An intro to the characters, and where they fit into the fabric of the story

A conference, its effect on the people and their rulers, and all those who are here for it

A pre-conference ball, and the first of the rebels’ forays

Endless distractions, and dancing with police, military, and secret police

The story behind the missing rebel leader, or rather, the once-leader of the opposition. We’re not going to be using poison-tipped umbrellas or assassins with poison-laced needles or tossing people out of 20-story windows.

That should be enough to keep me amused.

We’ll be back with another update in a hundred days.

More about my story

…

So, the jig is up, the ex, well, it’s hard to say what she is now to the protagonist, but let’s say she’s an ex girl friend (two words) and they have discovered they are in the same place at the same time, and knowing what he does, she knows why he is there.

Perhaps it is ‘convenient’ to stay in close proximity, or with her, for her ‘protection’. It’s not an ideal situation.

And, of course, there is the problem of the new assistant, though it should not be a problem, but for some reason, it is causing him angst.

But there it is. It’s not sleeping with the enemy, or is it?

There’s just one small issue that’s been bugging him. After all, it’s always the small things that cause the biggest problems. How did the rebels know where to go in the convention centre, and know where his charge would be, because there was no doubt why they were there, and who they were after?

And what sort of impact they were going to have on the proceedings. In that state, with the secret police and their leader, there was no doubt how that particular episode would end, and it would not be pretty, for anyone, and especially his charge. She would get caught in the crossfire, and he would be the one blamed for the mess.

Stay close was a good plan, but not that close. Well, all very well to take the moral high ground, but alcohol and old times are not a good mix.

Is there going to be another attempt?

You’ll have to wait and find out.

More about my story

…

So, the jig is up, the ex, well, it’s hard to say what she is now to the protagonist, but let’s say she’s an ex girl friend (two words) and they have discovered they are in the same place at the same time, and knowing what he does, she knows why he is there.

Perhaps it is ‘convenient’ to stay in close proximity, or with her, for her ‘protection’. It’s not an ideal situation.

And, of course, there is the problem of the new assistant, though it should not be a problem, but for some reason, it is causing him angst.

But there it is. It’s not sleeping with the enemy, or is it?

There’s just one small issue that’s been bugging him. After all, it’s always the small things that cause the biggest problems. How did the rebels know where to go in the convention centre, and know where his charge would be, because there was no doubt why they were there, and who they were after?

And what sort of impact they were going to have on the proceedings. In that state, with the secret police and their leader, there was no doubt how that particular episode would end, and it would not be pretty, for anyone, and especially his charge. She would get caught in the crossfire, and he would be the one blamed for the mess.

Stay close was a good plan, but not that close. Well, all very well to take the moral high ground, but alcohol and old times are not a good mix.

Is there going to be another attempt?

You’ll have to wait and find out.

Day 122

The use and abuse of obscenities.

…

I’ll say it straight up: I don’t believe it’s necessary to use obscenities in most of my stories, and I don’t. They do appear in the odd story, but you can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I use these words.

Sometimes, the odd ‘f’ word or the ‘s’ word is used for dramatic effect, but there are others that I would never use. The point is that I rarely use those words in general speech myself. I don’t see the point.

But..

All around me, wherever I go, the language is terrible, and by people so young they should not, and probably don’t know the meaning of the words they are using. My grandchildren use that language as a matter of speaking and forget sometimes that we don’t like to hear it, but they are getting better. i know for a fact that my two children use it all the time, so it’s a case of what you hear all the time in the home is what you consider normal.

I’m told all the kids at school swear, so I’m guessing there’s no discipline to stamp it out. These days, teachers have no authority to do anything, so it’s only going to get worse.

So, while I don’t appreciate it, and try not to go to any movies that have obscene language, which means we don’t see very many, or watch TV shows with it, I don’t use it as an excuse not to read something that I’ve been asked to critique. I have to get on board with the way the wind is blowing.

But I don’t have to like it.

And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m one of those really old fuddy-duddies.

Day 122

The use and abuse of obscenities.

…

I’ll say it straight up: I don’t believe it’s necessary to use obscenities in most of my stories, and I don’t. They do appear in the odd story, but you can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I use these words.

Sometimes, the odd ‘f’ word or the ‘s’ word is used for dramatic effect, but there are others that I would never use. The point is that I rarely use those words in general speech myself. I don’t see the point.

But..

All around me, wherever I go, the language is terrible, and by people so young they should not, and probably don’t know the meaning of the words they are using. My grandchildren use that language as a matter of speaking and forget sometimes that we don’t like to hear it, but they are getting better. i know for a fact that my two children use it all the time, so it’s a case of what you hear all the time in the home is what you consider normal.

I’m told all the kids at school swear, so I’m guessing there’s no discipline to stamp it out. These days, teachers have no authority to do anything, so it’s only going to get worse.

So, while I don’t appreciate it, and try not to go to any movies that have obscene language, which means we don’t see very many, or watch TV shows with it, I don’t use it as an excuse not to read something that I’ve been asked to critique. I have to get on board with the way the wind is blowing.

But I don’t have to like it.

And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m one of those really old fuddy-duddies.